


like the sun sends a golden stream

by fulmentus



Category: Glee
Genre: 2nd person POV, F/F, also, it's all fluff y'all, lord tubbington is truly a delight, that's all I know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29451099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/pseuds/fulmentus
Summary: But then Brittany’s kissing you, again, and again, and again, her lips catching yours until you’re both laughing too much to kiss properly.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	like the sun sends a golden stream

**Author's Note:**

> happy valentine's day y'all!
> 
> title from: for all you give by the paper kites  
> fulmentus.tumblr.com

You’re not sure which wakes you first: the abrupt amount of light that floods your bedroom — you roll away from it, curling yourself tighter beneath your comforter — or the familiar touch of someone walking their fingers up your sides.

You grumble, fidget away from the contact, but there’s a quiet laugh, a warm breath against your temple, and oh, you can’t help it when your eyes blink open, blurry and disoriented from sleep because she’s beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Blue eyes glowing and soft and hair spun gold from the pale sunlight spilling through the now open blinds.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching up a hand and rubbing a knuckle along the underside of your eyes.

Brittany smiles, giddy. “Good morning, San.”

Your eyelids flutter and you’re still tired, shaking off the lingering dredges of sleep, and Brittany’s reaching out and grasping your wrist between her fingers, bring your knuckles to her lips. Her touch lingers against your knuckles, warmth spreading from the tips of your fingers all the way down to your toes. The mattress dips under her weight as she leans over you, and you gaze at her through half-lidded eyes, adoring and awed.

She smiles against your skin, sweeps her thumb along the underside of your wrist. And your mouth twitches up, curling into a smile, a little helpless and a lot fond, and your heart thrums in your chest, steady and full of love — always, always love.

—

When you’re slightly more awake, squinting into the brightness of your bedroom, pulling a sweater over your head and sliding into a fuzzy pair of heart-speckled socks Brittany offered you, you notice the streaks of flour on her cheeks.

You brush your thumbs over them, her skin soft and smooth beneath the pad of your finger. Brittany’s face scrunches up as you wipe the flour away.

“Have you been baking?”

“Well, can’t have Valentine’s Day without cookies, right?”

You huff out a laugh. “Right.”

—

The kitchen counter is lined with boxes and bowls and trays, and you stare, a little bewildered at the mess Brittany managed to make without waking you. Then again, you’re not entirely too surprised. Brittany is incredibly sneaky when she wants to be.

(It probably helps that you’re an extremely heavy sleeper according to multiple people.

And you can’t really refute them either since you have to set up five separate alarms just to be able to get up on time to make it to your classes.)

Lord Tubbington swipes his tail across the back of your legs as he slinks across your path, and you wonder if he’s managed to stick his snout in any of the bowls Brittany laid out for baking. You wouldn’t put it past him really — that cat puts his face in everything.

Brittany’s already bouncing in place, a whisk in hand as she reads the instructions off the back of one of the many boxes.

“What kind of cookies are we making?” You lean your elbows on the edge of the counter, popping up on your toes to peer at everything.

“I was thinking sugar and chocolate chip?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Brittany ropes you into helping — not that it takes much convincing (it never takes much and sometimes you roll your eyes at how weak your resolve is when it comes to refusing Brittany anything, but at the same time you don’t really mind because you love seeing her smile) — and soon you have your hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and your sleeves rolled up and over your elbows.

Your hands are covered in dough and flour (okay, so maybe you’re both a little messy in the kitchen), and Brittany reaches over to swipe a stripe of it across your cheek when you’re busy shaping the cookies on the tray.

You gasp, whipping your head over to see her giggling, fingers poised over the palm of her open hand to flick more flour at you.

“Brittany.”

“Santana,” she replies, her grin a crooked and sly little thing.

Your eyes narrow, and you reach into the bag of chocolate chips for your own ammo.

“You flick that at me, and you’re starting a war.”

“That’s the idea.”

She flicks the flour at you, and you scramble to dodge the plume of powder headed your way. You chuck a chocolate chip at her in retaliation, ducking behind the other side of the counter as you go, and oh, you soon realize your mistake seconds into the decision because Brittany just—

“All that practice catching popcorn during our movie nights as kids is really paying off, San.”

“Oh shut up, Britt.”

—

The kitchen is a war zone of baking ingredients, but you don’t really mind.

Not when the delicious aroma of cookies baking in the oven is filling your senses and Brittany is sprawled out on the ground beside you. You turn to look at her, face pressing against the wooden floorboards, and find her already gazing back at you, eyes wide and so, so blue. Strands of golden blonde hair have escaped her haphazard bun, sticking up in awkward angles, but oh, you just think she looks so beautiful like this.

“We’re going to need to clean this up, you know.”

You shake yourself from your thoughts, heave out a sigh. “Yeah.”

Her hand finds yours in the tiny space between your bodies, her palm sliding against yours, all soft and warm and powdery still, but you slip your fingers in the gaps between hers anyway, squeezing tight.

“We can do it later.”

You laugh, a breathless sound. “Agreed.”

Lord Tubbington meows loudly, and you glance up just in time to see him somehow manage to stick his landing on top of the kitchen countertop.

You stare. He stares back balefully.

“On second thought, Britt—

“—Now is a good time,” she finishes for you.

She hops up onto her feet and tugs you up with her. When you stumble, your balance upset by the quick motion, she’s there to steady you (she always is), her hands on your shoulders, your nose pressing against her collarbone.

“Alright,” you say, pulling back a bit, just to be able to meet her gaze. “Let’s start cleaning up before Tubbs makes an even bigger mess.”

—

The cookies are lying on cooling racks and Brittany’s spinning around the living room in a pair of pink, polka-dotted socks, and you can’t help but watch, and watch, and watch, her happiness infectious.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, observing the way she moves with utmost grace, an ease to the movement of her body that you have always admired. She dances circles around Lord Tubbington, laughing whenever he bats at her legs. It’s the most energetic you’ve seen him in weeks. You don’t say it out loud though because oh, for how often you nag about him, Brittany always sees right through your jabs toward him.

( _You love him, San._

 _I love_ you _, Britt. There’s a difference._

 _Then explain why I found you panicking over him eating something weird off the floor the other day_. Brittany arched a brow, expectant, attempted — and failing — to hide the smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

You didn’t have an answer for her.)

(You still don’t. Damn that cat.)

“San—” You startle as Brittany’s hands entire your field of vision, waving back and forth. “—Dance with me.”

You tilt your head up, your gazes touching, and there’s a tenderness there, swirling in the depths of those eyes you spend far too much time writing about in your songs, that always steals your breath straight from your lungs.

You let her pull you up from the floor, and you loop your arms around her shoulders, playing with the fine hairs at her nape.

Her hands are warm at your waist, and she guides you in sweeping circles around the room.

“Do we have something planned for dinner?” She asks, skating her palm up your back, tracing the arch of your spine.

“Remember that Italian place you mentioned you wanted to try?” She nods, and you smile. “I got us a reservation.”

“ _San_.”

You shrug a shoulder at her look, all doe-eyed and speechless, and you duck your head down, heat rising to your cheeks. There’s something about the way Brittany looks at you sometimes, like you’re the most wonderful thing she’s ever set her eyes upon, like you could do _anything_ (like she will always, always love you), that fills your chest with too-big feelings. Too-big feelings that balloon between your ribs and make you wonder if it’s possible to feel too much all the time because that’s what Brittany does to you.

(When you were younger, you balked at the way she made you feel.

But it’s different now – so, so different. There are bands around your fingers that glint and glitter gold in the sunlight that slants through your apartment.

And you relish in the emotions that swirl through you now, warming you with its soft reassurance that you’re always going to have this. Have _her_.)

She’s smiling at you, wide, and effortless, and everything.

You’re still swaying across the room, but Brittany’s grip has shifted so that she’s tugging you close, the lines of your bodies melting together in the steadiness of her embrace. You close your eyes, rest your temple against hers.

“I thought you hated Valentine’s Day,” she jokes, her cheek brushing yours.

“It’s impossible to hate anything when I get to do it with you,” you reply softly, burying your face in the junction between her neck and shoulder, overwhelmed.

Her arms tighten around you.

—

You jerk when you step on something, no longer paying attention to where you’re placing your feet, and Lord Tubbington yowls and hisses, and oh, you’re losing your balance but you’re still clutching onto Brittany.

And suddenly you’re a heap of limbs on the floor, your elbow smarting from the impact and Brittany’s laughing from where she’s landed between your legs, her chin propped up on your chest.

You’re scowling and more than ready to hunt down that cat, but then Brittany’s kissing you, again, and again, and again, her lips catching yours until you’re both laughing too much to kiss properly.

“I hate you, Tubbs!” You call out from your position on the floor, rubbing at your elbow, but it’s half-hearted with the way Brittany’s breath fans across your cheeks, your foreheads touching.

“She really doesn’t,” Brittany hastily corrects, eyeing you as she pushes herself away and sideways, sitting upright. “You really don’t.”

Judging by the reproachful meow that echoes from somewhere under the couch, you don’t think Lord Tubbington believes you either.

You roll your eyes.

“Don’t be mad, San,” Brittany says, knocking her shoulder against yours. “We have cookies. You can’t be mad.”

You snort. “We should probably get dressed for dinner actually.”

“Cookies after?”

“Definitely.”

But neither of you make any move to stand. Too content, you think, to sit here in this moment. You’re still half on your back, and Brittany remains upright beside you, legs stretched out as she wiggles your toes. You extend your legs, prod the tip of your foot against hers. She prods back.

The late afternoon light casts the apartment in soft shades of gold and amber, shadows streaking across the far walls. And oh, you soak in the quiet atmosphere, the aroma of freshly baked cookies still wafting in the air, and Brittany.

Always Brittany.

You inch your hand across the floor until you find hers, your pinkies brushing, and Brittany hooks hers around yours without looking.

You breathe out slowly, your head tipping to the side to rest against her shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Britt.”

She leans her temple against your crown and sighs, content. “Happy Valentine’s Day, San.”

—

“We really should get up. I don’t want to miss that reservation. It was _not_ cheap.”

“After you, Honey.”

“Why does getting up take so much effort?”

“The faster we get dressed and eat, the faster we can come back here and cuddle on the couch and watch movies while we eat all the cookies in the apartment.”

“It's no wonder you're the genius in this relationship.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
